Orange
by ampersand
Summary: They go out for icecream. And have fun...


The room is a blur. I hear music and someone moaning for help, but I can't tell who it is. I try to focus on a curl that rests above my eyes. It gets darker and I wonder subconsciously if I dyed my hair black. I'm being attacked by black clouds. I must be going crazy. Maybe I've finally slipped into myself. My soul is charred, my eyes are too. I've seen too much, and now I can see nothing at all. There's one white blur, maybe it's a glimmer of hope. 

As the blur forms into a familiar silhouette, it dawns on me. 

"Help" I whisper again. 

Yes, my hope. Lucas Scott. Maybe he could've saved me. I let him in too far, and I threw him right back out, but it's his fault. I let the world see me, but how was I supposed to know that his perception goes beyond eyes, beyond thoughts… He raped me. He saw me in my nakedness, the nakedness of my soul. He brought me closer to him, maybe even joined me with him. Lucas Scott raped me. He did not rape my body, but he raped my true self. 

Rapist. 

That's what you are, Lucas Scott. An animal. 

"No…"

_You_ didn't give me a chance to say no.  _You used your power over me to your advantage. _

"Don't…" I feel his hands on me, and for a second I catch a glimpse of the black nails.

_Your _blue eyes roughly caressed every inch of me, ripped off my clothes so forcefully that my skin came with it. My costume. The part I play. You did it purposely.

"Stop…" He's pushing my hands down, so I can't stop him from pulling my pants off.

 _You _knew I was hiding and you forced me to show you myself…you forced the soft sayings, you forced the genuine smiles, from and over my lips, you jerk. You knew what you did, and I think you enjoyed it.  

He is too. He's laughing at me, I can hear him. 

"Stupid bitch." 

That's what _you think I am. Stupid for falling under your spell, a bitch for being too smart. Knowing that commitment wasn't for me…but what if I'm wrong? Maybe that's what I think of myself?_

Damn you, Lucas Scott, for making me doubt myself. 

And then I open my eyes and you are there, smiling. Why? What do you want from me? I've given you everything…except…that. But I cannot give you that.

I hate you, Lucas Scott. I think you may have forced me to convince myself that I have fallen, madly, deeply…

No, I have not fallen. You tripped me. You tricked me _and_ you tripped me. I am delusional and you are still staring. 

Can you read my thoughts now too? 

What the hell is this hold you have over me? I am not your puppet, Lucas Scott. Why, with a change of a facial expression, can you pull a string of my heart?

"Peyton?" 

Even the way you say my name. Teasing me. It's evident in your voice. You almost say, "You are a whore to my mind. And you have no control."

I want control. I had control. When I walked out of the room, at the party, I thought you wanted nothing more than to pin me to that bed. I didn't know you wanted 'love.' But when I left, it wasn't only because I was scared. I could control you. I could make you feel such a desire, a pleasure…and I could take it away. And I did. And it felt good.

But maybe not as good as I would've felt if I'd stayed with you.

God, you moron, making me second guess myself again. 

You are a stupid bastard. You act so open, simple, easy, virginal. 

I know something is hiding.

The tables are turning, Lucas Scott. And once I find what I'm looking for, maybe, I will give you something I never have had before, as long as it is requited.

Because I hate you, Lucas Scott. You are a cunning, sly, hypocrite. But I join you in hypocrisy, for when I say I hate you, I really mean I love you…and you have forced that from me, too. 

**A/N: Please tell me what you thought of my first Lucas/Peyton. I suggest we call them **tortured **as they were described in "Every Night Is Another Story." **

"Oh, come on! Tortured artist meets tortured athlete, talk about your obvious attraction." 

Thank you to Bent 137 for supplying me with the dialog. 

**Thank you for reading, **

**~Tye**


End file.
